11.24.08 (SAN ANTONIO'S BURNING!)
So today Masson came back from San Antonio talking about how he ate three nights worth of ribs, saw the Felice Brothers, and oh! What's this? Soiled Liam's reputation amongst all of the renowned lone star pedagogues. It all started with him telling us the story of a man whose name I believe was something along the lines of R.J. Bliek. The guy had no mystifying or confounding qualities all except for his excellence in math, which after much thought shot him straight to Vietnam as an engineer where he was building landing strips with Lieutenant Smith for those aeroplanes over the sea. Time passes and he proposes to his high school sweetheart, Allie, and then returns to Nam for one more tour, which ensures his robust future as an independent businessman. Now, while he's gone Allie has a baby girl whose name might've been Porphyria or Black Maria or Andy Garcia but nonetheless, it was beautiful. So Poor Maria Garcia grows up and all is well in the family. She channels the same obtuse persona of her father when he was a schoolboy until she meets Hubert. The hombre whose veiled by crime syndicates and cutthroats and desperadoes and mafiosos' and all kinds of crooks. Well, legend has it that the two got very becoming with one another, if you know what I'm saying, and ignited some of that polyphonic love tantrum everybody talks about so fervently. Well, R.J. gets a bit flaky over the subject and talks with this banker who tells him if he makes a hefty donation to some generic Boston college where his brosky is an administrator, Poor Maria Garcia might just get in. R.J. does as he's told and lo and behold, the ole lass gets in. Now, she's indifferent to the whole idea and things are looking pretty bleak to her the first couple of months until she meets some rich dude who goes by R. Emerson Chandler II. They hit it off, she spends the summer on his yacht where he proposes, they plan the wedding but on that faithful night...Hubert shows up, sweeps her off her feet, takes her to a secluded cottage by the lake, and breaks her neck with her hair only to be found by R.J. and Sheriff Nobody when they go out in search of her...so mind you this is how it ends. BUT! The story had a purpose. We went over some fine print following the narrative, which included an autopsy report, legal indictment, straight Newspaper article, an excerpt from the National Enquirer, and a poem. We discussed that everything has a mode, an audience, and a...I wanna say "subject" but I'm not sure. DOESN'T MATTER! So we went in on this and Masson then brought up the usage of the Wikispace and whether or not the logs served as an informative tool for the folks in our class. For example, if someone were absent and read my entries prior to this week...would they know the happenings of that week? Did the entries reach any certain objective? Did it have any real intentions or genuine motives? Did it fulfill any of your aspirations? Or was it all just simply a dream? He then concluded this by striking me in the face, pulling my sweater up over my head, and calling me "Nancy Boy". Then he let everyone take turns slapping my tummy. But I guess the moral to what happened today was that we can keep the spark in our writing while still being practical. You can be educational and enlightening and keep the funny intact but when you sacrifice the meaning behind everything for the sake of a guffaw...no one will know what you're talking about. With that said, I apologize to my fellow peers, to San Antonio, and to you, Mr. Masson. You probably had to put up with a lot down there because of me...and here come the tears of redemption!
11.25.08 (SHE WAS A GIRL FROM 1962! I WAS A BOY FROM 1959!)
Alright! So I wanna take this time to clear up any misconceptions that people have and say that I have no beef with Masson. That I did not, do not, and will not on account of the aforementioned events. Our temperaments are both cool and the past is over and done with. I mean, we've even started a Whitesnake cover band for this wedding we were simultaneously invited to. But I digress into the infernal, desecrating empire of hair metal and why it should be fired off into space for an infinite protraction of time so now I'm gonna wedge myself in between today's proceedings to make sure we're all at an even tenor. Firstly, we went into further detail on yesterday's sermon about modes, audience, and "PURPOSE", which was the one I'd forgotten, for the majority of the class that had been at this Memoir Workshop with a woman by the name of "Cunningham" Then we explored the underwater scenes of "the Graduate" and Ben Braddock's relative position in the modern world, which he frankly didn't want, and essentially his concern with his future and not wanting to consummate anything of any sort with the geriatric society 'cause those are some loaded dice right there. Lastly, we went to the computer lab to write out our in-depth film reviews...and then it was Party Time...SO BREAK OUT THE DISCO BALL AND TAM-O-SHANTER 'CAUSE THIS HULLABALOO IS BURNING ALL NIGHT LONG!
So today Masson came back from San Antonio talking about how he ate three nights worth of ribs, saw the Felice Brothers, and oh! What's this? Soiled Liam's reputation amongst all of the renowned lone star pedagogues. It all started with him telling us the story of a man whose name I believe was something along the lines of R.J. Bliek. The guy had no mystifying or confounding qualities all except for his excellence in math, which after much thought shot him straight to Vietnam as an engineer where he was building landing strips with Lieutenant Smith for those aeroplanes over the sea. Time passes and he proposes to his high school sweetheart, Allie, and then returns to Nam for one more tour, which ensures his robust future as an independent businessman. Now, while he's gone Allie has a baby girl whose name might've been Porphyria or Black Maria or Andy Garcia but nonetheless, it was beautiful. So Poor Maria Garcia grows up and all is well in the family. She channels the same obtuse persona of her father when he was a schoolboy until she meets Hubert. The hombre whose veiled by crime syndicates and cutthroats and desperadoes and mafiosos' and all kinds of crooks. Well, legend has it that the two got very becoming with one another, if you know what I'm saying, and ignited some of that polyphonic love tantrum everybody talks about so fervently. Well, R.J. gets a bit flaky over the subject and talks with this banker who tells him if he makes a hefty donation to some generic Boston college where his brosky is an administrator, Poor Maria Garcia might just get in. R.J. does as he's told and lo and behold, the ole lass gets in. Now, she's indifferent to the whole idea and things are looking pretty bleak to her the first couple of months until she meets some rich dude who goes by R. Emerson Chandler II. They hit it off, she spends the summer on his yacht where he proposes, they plan the wedding but on that faithful night...Hubert shows up, sweeps her off her feet, takes her to a secluded cottage by the lake, and breaks her neck with her hair only to be found by R.J. and Sheriff Nobody when they go out in search of her...so mind you this is how it ends. BUT! The story had a purpose. We went over some fine print following the narrative, which included an autopsy report, legal indictment, straight Newspaper article, an excerpt from the National Enquirer, and a poem. We discussed that everything has a mode, an audience, and a...I wanna say "subject" but I'm not sure. DOESN'T MATTER! So we went in on this and Masson then brought up the usage of the Wikispace and whether or not the logs served as an informative tool for the folks in our class. For example, if someone were absent and read my entries prior to this week...would they know the happenings of that week? Did the entries reach any certain objective? Did it have any real intentions or genuine motives? Did it fulfill any of your aspirations? Or was it all just simply a dream? He then concluded this by striking me in the face, pulling my sweater up over my head, and calling me "Nancy Boy". Then he let everyone take turns slapping my tummy. But I guess the moral to what happened today was that we can keep the spark in our writing while still being practical. You can be educational and enlightening and keep the funny intact but when you sacrifice the meaning behind everything for the sake of a guffaw...no one will know what you're talking about. With that said, I apologize to my fellow peers, to San Antonio, and to you, Mr. Masson. You probably had to put up with a lot down there because of me...and here come the tears of redemption!
11.25.08 (SHE WAS A GIRL FROM 1962! I WAS A BOY FROM 1959!)
Alright! So I wanna take this time to clear up any misconceptions that people have and say that I have no beef with Masson. That I did not, do not, and will not on account of the aforementioned events. Our temperaments are both cool and the past is over and done with. I mean, we've even started a Whitesnake cover band for this wedding we were simultaneously invited to. But I digress into the infernal, desecrating empire of hair metal and why it should be fired off into space for an infinite protraction of time so now I'm gonna wedge myself in between today's proceedings to make sure we're all at an even tenor. Firstly, we went into further detail on yesterday's sermon about modes, audience, and "PURPOSE", which was the one I'd forgotten, for the majority of the class that had been at this Memoir Workshop with a woman by the name of "Cunningham" Then we explored the underwater scenes of "the Graduate" and Ben Braddock's relative position in the modern world, which he frankly didn't want, and essentially his concern with his future and not wanting to consummate anything of any sort with the geriatric society 'cause those are some loaded dice right there. Lastly, we went to the computer lab to write out our in-depth film reviews...and then it was Party Time...SO BREAK OUT THE DISCO BALL AND TAM-O-SHANTER 'CAUSE THIS HULLABALOO IS BURNING ALL NIGHT LONG!